


the best you've ever had

by therm0dynamics



Category: Everybody Wants Some!! (2016)
Genre: M/M, Marijuana, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, questionable methods of getting ur best friend to chill out a little for once, sex and drugs and rock and roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7620559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therm0dynamics/pseuds/therm0dynamics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sex and drugs and and rock and roll,” McReynolds says, sounding faintly out of breath. “Roper, I’m shocked.”</p><p>(or: kenny roper’s very excellent afternoon)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the best you've ever had

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Лучшее](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13725249) by [WTF_Tyler_Hoechlin_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Tyler_Hoechlin_2018/pseuds/WTF_Tyler_Hoechlin_2018)



> in tribute to the utter joy and delight that is this criminally underrated movie and mcreynolds and roper in particular, i present: baseball, weed, and making out. i’m the worst american so everything i say about texas and sports is 300% made-up. content warning for recreational use of marijuana, but like. c’mon. we’ve all seen the movie. title from john legend.

In his twenty-one years of life, Kenny Roper has had bad days and good days and great days, but rarely has he ever had a day that’s felt so perfect as today.

It’s a Hollywood-nice late-September afternoon. Everything is intensely green and blue and white, the grass, the sky, the clouds. The sun beats down, warm and sticky, but the breeze that carries through the window has a crispness that foreshadows autumn. The sounds of the team banging around the house and the murmur of the street outside lulls Kenny into a pleasant haze.

He’s sprawled, shirtless and in his shorts, on his bed in the room he shares with McReynolds, listening to the Eagles album he’d stolen from Jake and staring at the weird brown stain on the ceiling and thinking of not much in particular. Mac’s gone for now, Kenny has no idea where — best friends and practically conjoined though they were, Kenny’s not the captain’s keeper — but he figures the guy will turn up when he turns up, and then they could go out and have themselves some fun. 

The pleasant exhaustion of a good workout burns in his body, his shoulders, his arms, his thighs. The afternoon’s practice had been the best one yet. It’s the first time Kenny’s felt the team settle together like a _team_. The freshmen have proven themselves game enough off the field, but partying hard and pulling chicks didn’t count for shit if they couldn’t play well together. But to their credit, they’d worked their collective asses off, and today was the day that an _something_ had finally clicked. Everything, from drills to scrimmage, had been fuckin’ textbook.

Maybe that’s why today feels so special, though it’s nothing more unusual than an exceptionally nice afternoon.

“Hey, Roper!” Dale calls from the hallway. “We’re going swimming in the river, wanna come?”

Kenny briefly debates getting up and getting dressed, but his brain immediately decides that’d be the worst fucking idea ever. His bed is so _comfortable_ and the breeze is washing over him just right and the sun feels like goddamn heaven on his skin. Ruining this moment would be a crime.

“Nah,” he says. “I’m gonna take a nap. We still going to the Fox tonight?”

“Hell _yeah_ we are, after a practice like today.”

 Kenny smiles. So Dale had felt it too.

 “Alright. See y’later, then,” Kenny says, and hears the half the team banter and quibble and thump their way down the stairs and out the door. Then, blessed silence.

 He stretches luxuriously, humming pleasantly to himself at how good it feels, then settles in for a nap. He’s just on the brink of dozing off when he hears the front door bang open again and someone clomping back up the stairs.

 “What, you forget your floaties, Brumley?” he calls, on the off chance that it _is_ Brumley, who’d somehow gone eighteen years on Earth without learning to swim. Amazing.

It’s not Brumley. The door flies open and Mac strides into the room and slams it viciously shut again and locks it. He narrows his eyes when he sees Kenny, lounging on the bed.

“Hey, Mac,” Kenny says cautiously. He feels a ripple of something interrupt his decadently good mood. It’s more of a premonition, really. He usually only feels it seconds before Jay starts a bar fight or when Plummer says _hey hold my beer and watch this_. It’s nothing good.

“Where is everyone?” Mac says shortly. Kenny pushes himself up to a sitting position and leans against the wall, stifling the urge to yawn.

“Swimming. They left like ten minutes ago, but we’ll see ‘em tonight at the Fox.”

“They do know we have a game tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah? Didn’t you hear Coach giving everyone the Two Rules talk like, three times after practice today?”

Mac frowns and sits on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wall across from him. Kenny sighs.

Mac will do this sometimes, just retreat to some quiet space and get all moody and brooding and stormy. Ever since he’d become team captain his sophomore year. Kenny would call it anxiety if he didn’t think Mac would rip his throat out with his teeth for merely suggesting he’s capable of that lesser human emotion.

“You’re overthinking shit again, I can feel it,” Kenny says, trying to ward it off before Mac can really get caught up in his own head. “The team’s fine. I felt it today. I know you did too.” 

“I’m not _overthinking_ ,” Mac retorts. “We both know that we have a long way to go before we’re championship-level.”

“Well yeah, but it’s only been a month we’ve been together as a team.” _You’re good at leading them, but nobody is_ that _good,_ Kenny doesn’t say, because he values his life.

“Exactly. Which is why I don’t want Brumley starting on third base tomorrow,” Mac says, his train of thought suddenly two stations ahead of Kenny’s.

“What? Why? He’s improved. I mean, he’s a fuckin’ space cadet, but he’s got quick reflexes.”

“Yeah, see? Good hands, but he lacks _focus_. Takes both to be 3B.”

“He has focus when it counts,” Kenny says. “Tagged out Dale today, remember?”

“Alright, but what about Nes? Right field? You think he’s got the fitness for that shit?”

“Did you not seem him running _literal_ circles around Finn while Finn was about to puke his guts out from those wind sprints?”

“Yeah, remind me to talk to Finn about that, that shit won’t fly next time. So where do I put Beauter, huh? I don’t trust him as a shortstop.”

“You don’t trust anyone whose name isn’t Glen McReynolds,” Kenny points out. For the first time that afternoon, a slight wave of irritation ripples through him.

One would think McReynolds, fearless captain of a national top-ten team and 99-percent-certain pro prospect, would chill the fuck out just once in his life and realize that not everyone in the world is maliciously out to fuck him over.

People tend to think Kenny never gets mad at Mac because they’re so close that they’re practically the same person, but it’s the opposite, really. In reality, nobody is capable of pissing him off quite as badly as Mac does, because there are so few boundaries between them.

But he also knows that Mac only ever gets this way in private around him — nobody else on the team has a clue. It’s a weakness that Mac’s showing, and Kenny knows, and Mac knows that Kenny knows. But somewhere down the line Mac’s decided that only Kenny will be privy to it. Only Kenny will get to know that Mac is just as human and insecure as the rest of them. So it’s really almost a _privilege_ to be talking his captain down from a full-on fit every three weeks.

That’s the thought that keeps Kenny from getting truly angry. Still, he’d rather get back to napping and then maybe a plate of fries at the Fox afterward, ‘cause the day is just too damn nice to spend it worrying. Usually he’d just ply Mac with whiskey and beer ‘till the guy’s pleasantly drunk and relaxed, then pull a girl or three to finish the night off.

But there’s a game tomorrow, and he’s sure nobody can afford the hangover that strategy usually causes. _If only there were a way to instantly relax someone_ , Kenny muses idly. _Like that hypnosis shit Finn was talking about the other day, or —_

Or. _Wait a second._

He’d almost forgotten, but he has a secret weapon here.

“Listen, Mac, I got something that’ll chill you out,” Kenny says, rolling off his bed. He goes over to his sock drawer, rummages around, and pulls out a fat, tightly-rolled joint. He shakes it at Mac like a bone at a dog.

“The fuck? Where’d you get that?”

“My share of Willougby’s stash, according to Dale. Some of the guys split it after … you know, that whole thing.” Kenny doesn’t usually smoke, but it’d been such a great day up to this point that this seems like a well-deserved treat, and _besides_. There’s more than enough to mellow both of them the fuck out.

“Yeah, okay,” Mac snorts, and goes back to glowering at the stain on the ceiling that seems to change color and shape every day. Once Nes claimed to have seen Jesus in it, but he’d been wasted at the time, so Kenny’s not inclined to believe him.

Kenny fishes a lighter out from the pile of clutter on his desk, lights up, and takes a hit. He braces for the acrid choking burnt-rubber taste to hit the back of his throat, but instead, a sweet and cinnamonny and clean taste rolls over his tongue.

“Holy shit,” Kenny says, letting out a breath of billowing smoke in surprise. Leave it to Willoughby to be a connoisseur with his weed. He licks his lips. Cloves, he recognizes. But there’s also something flowery underneath it. Chamomile? Lavender?

He crosses the room and waves the joint at Mac, who’s sitting on the edge of his bed and looking wary. “C'mon, take a hit, it tastes amazing.”

“Make me,” Mac says, petulantly. He stares at Kenny in challenge, tension coiled in his jaw and across his shoulders and in the clench of his hands and wrists where his fingers are gripping the edge of his mattress.

“Fine,” Kenny says, and takes another deep drag. Before he can think better of it, he steps in the space between Mac’s legs. He slides his hand to the back of his head to hold him still and leans right into his face, in almost close enough to touch mouth-to-mouth, and _blows_.

It’s more surprise than anything else that has Mac drawing a deep breath in as Kenny breathes the smoke out. When he’s done, he pulls away, smirking, happy to have finally gotten one over on the oh-so-smarmy team captain.

But then Mac, out of reflex or obstinacy or that chronic competitive streak of his that says he just _has_ to one-up everyone no matter how mundane or unnecessary the task, puts one hand on the back of Kenny’s neck and drags him in again.

Mac kisses like he does just about anything else — like he’s got a point to prove.

It’s hard and deep and dirty, and Mac’s licking into Kenny’s mouth, filthy slow, relentless, a slick smooth slide that tastes like flowers and cinnamon, and it seems to last forever, and there’s smoke in Kenny’s eyes and the scratch of Mac’s moustache against his face, and the loose, blurry feeling of a weed high already prickling in the back of his mind.

As he pulls away, Mac bites down on Kenny’s lip, a punctuation mark that contains an unspoken _fuck you_. Typical McReynolds gloating. And though he looks a bit startled, like he hadn’t seen this coming, there’s a complacent smirk on his face and a darkness in his eyes that isn’t just the weed getting to him. He’d barely had any yet. Something twists deep in Kenny’s guts at that thought. 

“Goddamn, McReynolds,” Kenny breathes, slightly at a loss for what to do. He’d just intended to help the guy relax a little. _This_ wasn’t part of the plan.

“Go again,” Mac says, licking his lips. Kenny can’t help but fixate on his mouth. His pretty, sneering mouth and his clever, clever tongue.

“You wanna smoke like a normal goddamned person, or you gonna make me do all the work again?” Kenny says, giving him an out just in case this was some horrendous mistake on McReynolds’ part.

“Go again, Roper,” Mac says, a leering and dangerous edge to his voice. Okay, they could do this too. Kenny’s not picky, and Mac’s certainly not the worst he’s ever had. Not by a long, long shot.

He takes another hit and leans in, this time pressing mouth-to-mouth with Mac, who takes a deep breath in and then grabs Kenny around the backs of his thighs and and drags him up and backwards with an impressive show of strength.

“Whoa, shit!” Kenny yelps, surprised, almost dropping the joint as they tumble backwards onto the bed. Mac, from beneath him, blows a mouthful of smoke in his face. “Hey, fuck you.”

“You wish,” Mac says, but there’s no heat in it. Kenny watches, slightly mesmerized, as Mac visibly relaxes beneath him as the weed works into his system. It’s like watching a rattlesnake uncoil.

Kenny goes one more time. If he’s gonna get Mac high, might as well get him _blazed_. He breathes in, savoring the taste, then sprawls out against Mac and shotguns the smoke into his mouth. Mac holds it, then doesn’t even bother breathing out before leaning up and claiming Kenny’s mouth again.

Being high always plays with Kenny’s sense of time, stretching reality into a distorted, syrupy, pulled-taffy mess. It could’ve been five minutes, could’ve been fifteen, that they spend languidly making out before Kenny becomes aware that he’s hard. Weed usually makes him kind of horny, no surprise, but he realizes with distant wonder that Mac’s there, too.

Just to test the waters, he nudges his leg up against Mac’s dick. Mac groans softly into his mouth, then pulls back and gives him an amused look.

“Sex and drugs and and rock and roll,” McReynolds says, sounding faintly out of breath. “Roper, I’m shocked.”

“I’m everything they warned you about, babe,” Kenny says, going for sleazy-on-purpose, but something changes in Mac’s look, and suddenly he looks a bit hungry and a bit animal-wild, and Kenny finds himself a little breathless, too.

“Tsk-tsk. And on the day before a game, too.”

“Hey, the rules are no _alcohol_ and no _girls_. I don’t see any of that around, do you? I’m just trying to help you relax a little, Christ.”

“Shut up and get me off already.”

“Oh, leaving all the work to me again. Classic.”

“I’m team captain, which means I’m good enough to get people to do the work I don’t wanna. I’m sorry you’re not on my level.”

Kenny rolls his eyes. What a fucking arrogant _brat_.

“Fine,” he says, sitting up to straddle Mac’s legs. “But don’t think I’m gonna make this easy on you.”

“Bring it on, Roper.”

Glen McReynolds: making everything up to _and including_ sex into a competition. In-fuckin’-credible.

Kenny rucks up Mac’s shirt and strips it off him, pausing for a second to appreciate the view. Even stoned and sprawled out and messed up from Kenny’s hands and mouth, he’s all clean lines and solid muscle and steady grace. It’s almost unfair, but Kenny’s never been a jealous person. You really can’t be if you want to last two minutes around the guy.

“Any time now,” Mac says. And yeah, that’s the other reason Kenny’s never been too awestruck by his team captain. It’s cause Mac, not so deep down, is a _raging asshole_.

Kenny responds by biting down on the muscle between Mac’s neck and shoulder and grinding his hips down hard against Mac’s thigh. Mac’s breath hitches and he bucks up, seeking contact.

“Nuh-uh,” Kenny says, pulling away. “You wanted me to do all the work, so you don’t get to move at all. Bet you can’t handle _that_.”

The response is almost Pavlovian. At the word _bet_ , Mac’s eyes glint, and that’s all the answer Kenny needs. He smiles. He dips his head back down, licking and biting and kissing over Mac’s skin. Not too hard — bruises in awkward spots would be too hard to explain away in the locker room — but just this side of painful to feel good.

First Mac’s neck, then over his collarbones, his chest, his sternum. Kenny’s hit the peak of his high now, and somehow even the slide of skin on skin feels intense and amazing. The slant of the sun casts everything in shades of warm red and gold, and the breeze is at his back again, cool and soothing, and the Eagles are crooning something about California, and that utterly content feeling comes back with a vengeance.

Ten years down the line, Kenny thinks, he’s probably gonna remember the big things that have happened to him: his first ever party in college that’d ended in him falling out a third-floor window, his first practice as a freshman and the following “batting practice,” winning the national championships twice or three times (hopefully), graduating on time (hopefully), his first draft for the big leagues (hopefully).

A day like this, a criminally beautiful afternoon full of sex and drugs and and rock and roll, this is something that’ll blur into the past as just another _nice day_. Something like this is an of-the-moment thing, he decides. He’s gotta enjoy it _now_. 

“Earth to Roper,” Mac grunts from beneath him.

“What? Yeah, yeah,” Kenny says, shaking out of his reverie. This is why he doesn’t usually smoke. Sitting there with his mind pinging off on tangents isn’t really his thing. Leave that to Finn.

He returns his full attention to the increasingly impatient-looking captain beneath him, taking his sweet time while grinding lazily against Mac’s leg. He moves slowly down Mac’s body, onto the tensed muscles of his stomach — okay, fuck jealousy, Kenny is actually very envious of how built and good-looking Mac is — then licks and kisses over the crest of Mac’s hips. He stops for a moment to yank Mac’s shorts and underwear down and off, and smiles at the disgruntled expression on the captain’s face.

“You gonna do something, Roper, or you gonna just be a fucking tease?”

“When I said no moving, you realize I also meant your mouth, right?”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m _trying_ , McReynolds. Shut up and let me work.” 

He leans back down and bites down in the soft dip between Mac’s hipbone and his dick. Mac shifts restlessly and muffles a curse. He’s so hard it looks almost painful, and Kenny would feel a bit of sympathy if he weren’t also enjoying himself so much.

“Roper — ” Mac growls, about seven shades breathier than normal. “Thought you were trying to help me relax here.”

“Who says I’m not?” Kenny grins. “You wanna admit defeat? We can just call it a day. It’s not too late, you know.”

Mac snarls. Oh well, Kenny thinks, and takes Mac’s dick into his mouth without warning.

“Fuck, oh shit, oh _shit,_ ” Mac hisses, thrashing once, violently, before forcing himself still again. Kenny gives a few experimental bobs of his head, drawing more profanity out of Mac, then pulls off right as the swearing grows desperate.

“You wanna tell me again about who you want starting on 1B tomorrow?” Kenny asks, conversationally.

“Jesus Christ, Roper!” Mac practically shouts. Kenny shrugs, taking that as a no, and goes down on him again to a steady litany of swears. “Kenny, Kenny, I’m gonna — ”

“Wait, no, it was _third_ baseman you were worried about,” Kenny says, pulling off again, practically choking with the effort of holding back his laughter. He continues slowly humping against Mac’s leg, making sure the captain gets not a _thing_ out of him.

“I swear to god, Roper — ahhh, _fuck!”_

That’s Kenny sucking him off again, this time throwing his hand into the mix in a way that he thinks _he’d_ personally enjoy and, judging by the fervent reaction he’s getting, works like a treat on Mac, as well.

“Goddamn it, fuck, fuck — ”

“Sorry, what? Kenny Roper is better than me at everything, you said?” Kenny says, sitting up. He can feel his own orgasm building, but it’s almost inconsequential at this point. Beneath him, Mac’s a goddamn mess — wild hair, eyes ink-dark and half glazed-over, skin flushed, hands tangled in in the sheets so tightly that his knuckles are white and the veins are standing out in his arms. Kenny can feel Mac trembling beneath him with the sheer effort of holding himself still. Every muscle tensed, so keyed up that it’d probably just take one light touch to bring him over.

Christ, this guy really hates to lose, Kenny thinks, not for the first time and not for the ten thousandth. It’s gotta be fucking rough living in your own head all the time, distrustful of everyone else and constantly reevaluating your own self-worth every time you’re not the absolute _best_ , even at small, insignificant shit like washing dishes or drinking beer.

“You wanna hear me beg, asshole?” Mac gasps, voice wrecked and barely comprehensible. “Yeah? Huh? Is that what you want?”

“Not really,” Kenny admits, as he runs a soothing hand up and down Mac’s side, feeling his flushed, sweat-slick skin. It really wouldn’t make Mac feel any better about himself. He’s far too proud for begging to be anything else than a deep, deep humiliation. “Just hold on, alright? This’ll be worth it, McReynolds, I promise.”

He quickly strips off his own shorts and underwear and crawls further up Mac’s body. He kisses Mac one last time, deeply, the aftertaste of weed and cinnamon on his tongue, and thrusts down once, twice —

“Oh fuck, Kenny, oh _fuck_ — ” is as far as Mac gets before he throws his head back and lets out a long, low moan. He shudders voicelessly for what feels like a good ten seconds until Kenny suddenly feels a sticky heat smeared against his belly. So that's Mac taken care of, and he reaches down to quickly finish himself off as well. His orgasm rolls through him like a wave, pleasure and contentment from his head to his feet, and he flops down on top of Mac.

“The _fuck_ did you learn how to do that?” Mac asks drowsily. Kenny smiles. There’s no bite to it at all, now that Mac seems as loose and chill and dead calm as Kenny feels inside. Mission effectively accomplished.

“Remember that blonde at the Delta Gamma party last year, the short one with the platform heels and the friend who — ”

“Wanted to be a country music singer. Yeah, I remember I took her home.”

“Well, I went with the blonde one, and she, ah,” Kenny says, flushing a little at the memory.

“Oh my God. What, did she make you beg? _Did you do it?”_

“ _Listen,_ motherfucker,” Kenny starts. There should be a rule against taunting people when their jizz was all over you, he decides. It should be considered common fucking courtesy. 

“Jesus _Christ,_ ” Mac snorts. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Hey, we can’t all be Glen McReynolds in bed,” Kenny snipes back, and as an afterthought, before Mac winds up to lob another insult, “and not everyone is as _nice_ and _forgiving_ as I am when it comes to giving people what they want.”

“You’re not wrong,” Mac says suddenly. Kenny looks up sharply. There’s Mac’s usual cocky smirk pasted on his face, but there’s something soft, almost _kind_ , in his expression. And just as quickly, it’s gone, but Kenny doesn’t need the reassurance to know he’s Mac’s favorite person and vice versa. That’s just how they were.

“So,” Mac continues. “Were you into it?”

“I don’t know, McReynolds, you feel like finding out?” Kenny says, just to get him to drop the subject. 

As it turns out, Mac was _more_ than wiling to find out.

No bets required.

**Author's Note:**

> honestly why isn't there like 1000 stories about these two just being their dumbass selves i'm w a i t i n g
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed this, and please let me know what you think!


End file.
